Sowing Season
Ha-Ha! Aha-Ha-Ha-Ha. Welcome HACK kiddies to my CASTLE GORE yet another YELL-YARN. I, CREEPS, have one that will SHIVER YOUR SPINES! This FABLE OF FEAR is called... A guy was getting a bottle of Jack Daniel's Whiskey out of his refrigerator in his cabin-kitchen up, in the wilderness of northern-Maine, back in the summer of 1968. He opened it and took a big swig, then sat down in his front room-recliner and viewed The Brady Bunch come on t.v. It was raining outside and a pounding on the man's cabin-door was heard. He got up, answering it. "Hello, may I help you, Mr. Peterson?" he asked the guy at the door. "Hello, Mr. Andrews, yes. I hope this isn't inconveniencing you, but I just need to clean up and gather a few things I forgot this weekend. Could I spend just this evening here please?" Mr. Peterson claimed and wondered of him. "Yes, sure thing sir. Thank you for selling me your cabin here. I am enjoying it a lot here. Come on in" Mr. Andrews invited, thanking Mr. Peterson. "Why, thank you sir. Glad ya are liking it so far" he responded, strolling inside. "Can I offer you a Jack Daniel's or anything?" Mr. Andrews offered. "Sure thanks" Mr. Peterson grinned back. An hour went by and as Mr. Andrews rinsed out two empty bottles of Jack Daniel's Whiskey in his kitchen-sink, a knocking on his door was heard. Seeing that it was some man within the shadows, he only poked his head out of the door. "Can I help you sir?" Mr. Andrews asked the stranger. "Beware sir Sowing Season has started because we will sow terror on Mr. Peterson!" the shadowy-stranger in the hat told Mr. Andrews in an elderly voice. "Please leave mister before I call the police!" Mr. Andrews replied to him, slammed the door, latching it. "Mr. Peterson, an old man was just here who was in the shadows and he seemed to be out to harm you for some reason" Mr. Andrews explained to him, as Mr. Peterson came downstairs then. "Oh, that's my Dad. He is senile. We never got along unfortunately. He lives around here" Mr. Peterson described the situation. "He's not dangerous don't worry" he went on, explaining. Mr. Peterson went outside,v into the backyard and the rain stopped. He saw a mysterious hole dug into the ground. He got to his truck around front, got a shovel out of the bed of it, and returned to the hole, dumping dirt back into it. Meanwhile the phone rang and before Mr. Andrews could say hello, the voice of Mr. Peterson's father wildly carried on over the phone: "my Son murdered us all with a hammer sir!". "Hello, you need some help sir!" Mr. Andrews stated on the telephone and hung up. Then as Mr. Peterson kept filling in the hole with dirt, someone unseen walked up behind him. "Dad, it's me Douglass" the voice of a boy whose voice came and went like wind said from behind Mr. Peterson. He turned around with his shovel full of dirt and saw a rotting-corpse of a boy who was a zombie. "Douglass no!" Mr. Peterson gasped in terror and surprise. The zombie of Douglass had: no nose, just an orange-glowing nose-hole, no lips, just a skeletal-mouth that glowed-orange inside of it as well, and eyes which were sunk deep into his eye-sockets that also shined a yellow-orange, lighting up his sockets. The living-dead zombie of Mr. Peterson's son in his mud-covered vest, pants, shoes and cap, grabbed his dad by the neck with dark-decayed-flesh dropping from his dead-hands. Mr. Peterson dropped his shovel, gasping for air and the zombie of a woman slumped up to him after he fell to his knees, choking. The long blonde-hair of the living-dead lady was twirled by her pale-white finger, as she observed his eyes grow huge, noticing her. Her eyes were gone and her flesh was rotting with a patch of it missing from one of her cheeks, leaving a black hole. The female zombie peered at Mr. Peterson with her eye sockets as black as night as she stood in her dirt-coated white dress and rotting-pale white bare-feet. "Clara my Wife!!!" Mr. Peterson choked out to her. As the zombie of Clara smiled quietly with her dead-black-lips, Mr. Peterson's father came out of the shadows into the light, being a skeleton and zombie himself. "Hello, Son, it is Sowing Season, and we're all here to let you reap what you sowed heh-heh!" the decayed-skeleton of Mr. Peterson's father cackled at him in his black trench-coat and hat, as his lower-jawbone snapped off. Thirty minutes later, Mr. Andrews was out, on the front porch and sat in a rocking-chair smoking a cigarette. The zombie of Mr. Peterson's father staggered onto the porch in shadow. His eye sockets shined-yellow. "We have taken care of my Son Mr. Peterson, sir" the shadowy-skeleton explained to Mr. Andrews. "What have you done to Mr. Peterson your Son sir??" he demanded in response. "Oh, his dear Wife Clara, Son Douglass and I finally buried the hatchet so to speak. We did have quite a bone to pick with him" the zombie cackled away, answering, as he held out his boney-hand to Mr. Andrews. In the backyard, the lifeless-head of Mr. Peterson stuck up, out of the ground where the hole had been at. Hee-Hee. Looks like Mr. Peterson's Family helped him get A-HEAD of cleaning up around the place eh, kiddies? Their help came with a price that was rather DIRT CHEAP aha-ha-ha! I guess the OLD SLAYING was FRIGHT for him: YE CREEP WHAT YE SOW heh-heh-heh.